


Even Redder than Mine

by Ani



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Light Bondage, Light D/s, M/M, is hairdye even a fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:04:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ani/pseuds/Ani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is this red-headed league, it’s a case, Sherlock has to investigate with, naturally, red hair. He is capable of dyeing his own hair and has done so before, but it is far easier with an assistant, and John has agreed. This is a simple matter: John provides the labor, sets the timer, Sherlock showers and rinses, Sherlock is ready to gather data in the morning.</p>
<p>It is not simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Redder than Mine

            This is not what he had anticipated.

            They are in the living room, Sherlock stripped down to his pajama trousers, a towel draped over the back of the chair he is straddling. John is standing next to him holding a vial of purple dye, and a plastic comb, and plastic gloves, which are together going to dye his hair a fiery ginger.

            There is this red-headed league, it’s a case, Sherlock has to investigate with, naturally, red hair. He is capable of dyeing his own hair and has done so before, but it is far easier with an assistant, and John has agreed. This is a simple matter: John provides the labor, sets the timer, Sherlock showers and rinses, Sherlock is ready to gather data in the morning.

            It is not simple.

            There is, instead, something complicated happening. Up until the moment, there was nothing, a smooth roll of persuasion and material-gathering and instructions and John rolling his eyes at the instructions. Sherlock sat down and leaned forward and braced for the cold gel and then…

            And then John ran his hand through his hair and…

            And it tingled, it shocked, it felt like a tight burn, like a quiet groan, it made Sherlock bite his lip in surprise. His fingers tightened on the back of the chair. John squeezed out more dye onto his palm, a liquid pool, a promise, and then his hands curled through together into Sherlock’s hair. Tracing lightly on his skin, like a whisper, chilled electricity running down his spine and up again while John stroked up and down, adding color, rubbing it through. He made swirls in the back. He laid fingertips on Sherlock’s forehead and brushed backwards, adding dye more aggressively now, pulling on his hair, tugging at times, to get in deep, but not cruelly, gently, just with necessity. And as suddenly buzzing and alert as Sherlock was, sitting straight curled up like an arrow about to spring, he felt also very indulgently relaxed. His eyes fluttered closed and he just felt John, just rolled in the touch, in the pattern of sway and tug, in John slipping through his hair and coating on dye and laying curls flat. His fingertips brushed against Sherlock’s ears. There was this spot, behind his ear, which if touched lightly made him shudder, uncontrollably, and he does now when John traces gently around.

            “Lean forward,” John whispers, and then, “lean back.” He is quiet. No doubt concentrating. Sherlock is quiet. His brain searches for causes, settles on, _it has been a long time since I was touched_ and _I have never been touched like this_ and _I am deeply attracted to_ and then John tugs his hair back, roughly, because he’d unintentionally ignored the last polite requests, and Sherlock’s head snaps backwards which is good because John needs to reach his eyebrows and not good because it takes the practice of sharp self control to prevent a groan escaping from his lips.

            John is still holding tightly onto his hair, bracing him back. His fingertips trace the roots of Sherlock’s hair, checking, and he makes a satisfactory noise. And then John lightly strokes his eyebrow. It is a curious sensation. It feels indescribably close. John has to lean over him, to do this properly, and Sherlock can feel John’s exhale, John’s breath against his own lips, can catch the air currents as they travel, can imagine the distance between. When John nudges him forward, back to his original position, he instead feels the breath on his neck, like he’s waiting, but Sherlock doesn’t know for what, and it’s cool, cold in the dye, and John strips off his gloves (Sherlock can hear the snap) and gently takes Sherlock’s head in his hands and rolls it around his neck, checking his work. He does this leaning far over the chair. Sherlock is almost too tall for him anyway. John has clearly been successful, as there is a happy _hmm_ that rolls in this throat, and then he releases Sherlock. Releases him to success, to the limits of his ability. Sherlock is left suddenly alone, as John leaves with the rubbish. Left until he must dye his hair back black, and then never again…

            In the lack of touch, in the dreadful absence, Sherlock is cold. He wonders if he can’t somehow convince them to...convince…John to…

            Something has all gone wrong.

            That fact feels wrong but also things are _glorious._

_  
_

Sherlock considers the available approaches springing from different motivations: to ignore it, to mention it, to hide it, to propose solutions… His brain responsively returns a list of answers, but he knows he doesn’t have the preexisting research to make a good selection. He looks at John. John comes back and sits down in a chair across from him, and sets the timer on his phone, and sets the phone down, and stares back at him. __

            “It may itch,” he warns.

            This is true. Sherlock is going to point out that he’s aware, and that he already knows it’s not indicative of an allergy, when John continues.

            “But you cannot touch it. It’ll stain your skin. So clasp your hands behind your back.”

            Sherlock, with great eloquence, says, “What?”

            “Cross your wrists behind your back.”

            “No.”

            “I’m going to help you keep from scratching. We both know it takes ages to get ink out of your skin, and if your fingertips are red someone might notice. It’s very important for your disguise to be perfect, isn’t it?”

            That had indeed been Sherlock’s very words, although he is very capable of not touching his scalp no matter how it burns. He is going to say so, rudely, to John, because he feels insulted that John would have to think he needs _help_ and then he fully realizes what John said.

            “And how are you going to help?”

            “Just if you need it,” John says patiently. “But I trust in you. Now do it.”

            There is something like cold steel in his voice. Sherlock crosses his arms, lays one wrist against the other, sitting up firmly straight in the chair. He looks at John, and John nods, with approval.

            He wishes they were still applying the dye, that he still had John’s hands on him. He moves slightly at the thought, shoulders bracing, and John frowns.

            “Be still,” he says.

            There is something happening here. He knows that. He runs through the ideas, again, incorporating the new data. His brain answers, _unnecessary_. Why bother provoking a plan when John is doing it for them? _John_ knows what is going on, even if he doesn’t. He should just listen to John.

            So Sherlock gazes back at him and does not move. He does not move in a stillness that is perfection. A careful not moving, a stillness that _proves_ something. Even when his arms begin to ache. John smiles at him. It is more of a smirk. Minutes past. Long minutes. He can’t see the time, but he can count it, internally. He remains posed and obedient. John continues to look pleased, patient and still himself.

            And then it’s been long enough, the dye is soaking in, his skin starts to itch, and he twitches just slightly.

            “No,” says John. “Come on, we need to do this properly.” He stands and Sherlock immediately rises, follows him. John gestures him and has him kneel, lean against the bath edge, head held over the tub. He arranges Sherlock’s hands in back again. Sherlock closes his eyes, because there is no new visual input and so he’ll get more information paying attention to his other senses, and because John has taken something out of his pocket that whispers like silk, that _is_ silk, and he gently binds Sherlock’s wrists together.

            His brain notices that whatever is happening here is now officially _happening_.

            But Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what to say except, finally, “That felt nice. My hair.”

            “I enjoyed it to.” He can hear the warmth in John’s voice. “Hadn’t thought to use _that_ but it worked quite well.”

            “For?”

            There’s a moment of quiet. Then John says, with a lilt of panic in his voice, “Sherlock, we don’t have to-”

            “No,” he says. John instantly falls silent. This is the usual arrangement, his commands finding response, but it seems wrong now. Instead, with more hesitance, but in a deep voice, in serious, he says, “No, this is good.”

            There is silence. Sherlock is bound and still.

            The timer goes off.

            John quiets it and leans over Sherlock to turn on the shower. It splatters cold and then hot, and then John is standing over Sherlock, one leg braced on each side, and he tells Sherlock to keep his eyes closed.

            The hot water sinks into his hair. John lets it rinse first, rinse and rinse, and then must turn the water up and now it borders on the too-hot that is pleasure and the too-hot that is pain. His hands return to Sherlock’s hair, pulling from roots. Water splatters down. John shapes and tugs, shaking the red out, and it’s harsh, it almost hurts, but the pain has tightened something in Sherlock and he leans into it. His skin tingles and when John says, “lean back” or, “to the right,” he instantly obeys, shows off by guessing where John needs him next, listens perfectly. John’s hands are on him and when he lightly brushes Sherlock’s neck Sherlock moans.

            The shower is turned off.

            “There,” says John thickly, “the water’s run clear.”

            Sherlock stumbles up, turns around. His hair drips down his back. John, too, has gotten wet in the shower, has already stripped off his shirt. He reaches back to undo the knot.

            “No,” Sherlock whispers.

            “No?” John asks. He turns to speak to him; they are already so close that it becomes the same-shared breath, the distance prior to a kiss.

            “I like it. All of it.”

            “Do you want more?”

            “God yes,” Sherlock says, and is rewarded by John’s low chuckle, by John brushing his wet hair back and slipping his fingers down to cradle Sherlock’s face.

            “Wait,” Sherlock says, when John closes his eyes. “Turn the water back on.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote from, of course, the Red Headed League.
> 
> The rest is harder to explain.


End file.
